


The Needs of the Few

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock ruminates on the matter of belonging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Needs of the Few

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 1/9/2010 for the st_xi_kink prompt: _How a D/s relationship would be in the communist Federation. Owning something isn't an emphasis in their world, so I imagine some of them would find something really satisfying about indulging these urges and just owning their partner. Freedom in making the rules for them, being in charge of them. I'd like a fic that explores that, with Chekov as the bottom, anyone on top :)_

Nothing in the room truly belongs to him. The utilities belong to Starfleet - the bed, the desk, the sonic shower, his uniforms, the science blues with the double braids at the cuff that have become an integral part of his self-image; he holds claim to none of it. The few ornaments, too, belong to someone else: the Vulcan sword displayed on his wall and his worn, ancient lyre are both property of the tribal matriarch T'Pau, loaned to him as a gesture of goodwill. In truth, he owns nothing, neither here nor on New Vulcan; there is no need of such personal possessions, for the Federation provides what he requires, and to desire more than that - to _want_ \- is anathema to his species.

Nonetheless, he wants this lithe form, this body kneeling before him. He wants it - _craves_ it - and it is given freely, willingly, wholly and completely. It is his. Perhaps this goes against the economic philosophy of the Federation, and perhaps it flouts the utilitarian ideal of his people, but his collar is wrapped around that slender throat and his brand is emblazoned on the ensign's bony hip, a scar to know him by. _His._

Spock rises, goes to his desk, and surveys the items on it, contemplating the use of each tool available. He is leisurely; he has time. Making his selection, he turns and steps behind Chekov, standing still for a moment; the ensign is poised, kneeling as if in benediction on the bed, his pale skin almost glowing in the artificial lights. Spock traces the tip of the riding crop over Chekov's thighs, and watches the human shiver slightly.

"Do you object, ensign?" he inquires, voice steady. It will not remain so. It never does.

"Never, sir," Chekov says with a pleased little sigh, confusing his Vs and Ws like he so often does. "I belong to you. Please, do what you want with me."

Spock's grip tightens minutely on the crop.

He brings it down hard, slashing across the back of Chekov's thighs, leaving marks on his buttocks. Naturally, he holds back some of his strength, measuring it out carefully; his ensign is fragile, like all humans, and Spock would not want to break what is his.

He doesn't know how long he continues in this vein; time tends to lack meaning here, when they do this together. He stops when he chooses to; Chekov is his property, and it's his right to do so. The human is trembling, past sobs now, gasping in that terribly lovely not-quite-crying way humans have; Spock observes the welts rising on Chekov's flesh, red lines crisp like the letters of his native tongue, and is pleased.

He sets the crop down on the desk, positioned in the exact angle it was before, and kneels next to Chekov. The young human slumps against him, and Spock curves an arm around his torso, hand pressed against the ribs, barely noticeable under a tight layer of muscle - and the skin-to-skin contact sparks in his mind, Chekov's giddy epinephrine-driven delirium intoxicating to his senses.

"Excellent," he murmurs against Chekov's shoulder. "You are excellent."

"Mmm," Chekov agrees. "I am yours."


End file.
